


my blood runs weak

by whatiskinderegg



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Infected Newt, M/M, Post Scorch Trials, The Flare, The Last City, The Scorch, otp:I won't let you, pre the death cure, set during the search for minho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-24 11:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17703479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatiskinderegg/pseuds/whatiskinderegg
Summary: "Thomas opened the door a second time, again lingering in the shadows of the old house. Newt was still a solid line against the broken table in the corner; head down, muscles tensed; his arms crossed in the familiar woollen-lined jacket; his shoulders hunched up to his ears. Thomas couldn't see his expression to read it, but Newt's fair hair hung low over his eyes like a storm cloud, and Thomas could guess his mouth was tightly pursed; his jaw clenched taut as a drum.It was all wrong. All of it."





	my blood runs weak

_**Thomas finds out Newt's not immune. He isn't happy.** _

* * *

 

 Thomas opened the door a second time, again lingering in the shadows of the old house. Newt was still a solid line against the broken table in the corner; head down, muscles tensed; his arms crossed in the familiar woollen-lined jacket; his shoulders hunched up to his ears. Thomas couldn't see his expression to read it, but Newt's fair hair hung low over his eyes like a storm cloud, and Thomas could guess his mouth was tightly pursed; his jaw clenched taut as a drum.  
  
 It was all wrong. All of it.

  Not just Newt's anger. Not just the fact that he was Infected. Not only Gally’s godforsaken way into WICKED - not only the idea of using Teresa for _anything_ (not only the idea of Teresa)- but it was wrong what was happening between them. Since when did they walk on eggshells around one another? Since when did they impose distance between the other when they were in pain? When did Thomas _ever_ avoid Newt, when had he ever _not_ approached him about _anything_? They were not meant to be angry with each other. It didn't work that way. Thomas didn't work that way. They had each other's back: they didn't give up - not on Minho, not on anything. Thomas didn't give up. Newt wasn't supposed to either.

 He kept his eyes on the stern figure as he stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. Newt didn't stir a feather of a muscle, not even to straighten the corded muscles in his neck. The position he was in, they looked strained. Thomas hated it. He hated to see Newt's strings wound so rigidly, spread thin though they all were. Newt was supposed to be soft; bright and snarky; laid back and forever; a constancy, a comfort. A hand on Thomas's back. Fingers pressed into his wrist, squeezing gently. A brush of knuckles, bony and sharp against his.

 Not this, never this.

  "Newt," he said, crossing the room in a breath and taking hold of the boy's shoulders in his hands. His voice was quiet and Newt was shaking, the tremble in his body only discernible now that Thomas was touching him. The vibrations snaking through him made even the golden strands hiding his eyes quiver. _It was like trying to hold a loosed arrow in your palms,_  Thomas thought, _white-hot and blurry_.

 A desperate yearning shot through him. _F_ _or god's sake_ , he wanted to cry, _just let us have this. Just stop him hurting._ But, also,

_Don't take him away, too._  

 "Newt. Look at me." Thomas rubbed his shoulders until the hair looked up and suddenly brown eyes were shining at him hurtfully. Reproachfully, and glinting with the promise of anger if Thomas were to push it any further.

 "Don't." Newt warned. His vocal chords, too, were shaken. "Just don't, Tommy." He pushed out of Thomas' hold.

 "Will you just listen to me?"

 "I've been listening!" Newt snapped. He sighed and ran a weary hand through the molten chaos of his hair. "It's . . . enough, Thomas. We've both said it all, so - so just leave it-" 

 A different kind of indignant fury rose in Thomas. He could feel his pulse beating inside his head, on his brain.

 "-It's _not_ enough!" Thomas interrupted, and he pressed Newt back against the table. "It won't be enough, not ever! Newt-!" He stammered, simultaneously frustrated yet exhausted. He was furious with everything - with WICKED, for everything they had done, for all that they had been through; with Teresa for so many things, so many unnameable things; with the world they were left to fight to live in; with Gally; with Vince; with _Newt, Newt, Newt,_ because how could this happen? To _him_ ? Not to him! Not him! _Why him, never him._

 He finally fixed Newt with the fury in his eyes, burning clear, but quiet, suddenly and all entirely needful.

 "You might be ready to die" -Newt, under his fingertips, lips bitten and red, eyes shining like glass- "but I'm not ready to let you. So, you can go ahead and give up-"

 "-it's not giving up if-"

 "-we're going to save you-"

 "-Minho is the priority, Thomas! Don't you dare jeopardise our only chance at getting him out of there because of me!"

 "Why can't we save you both?" Thomas demanded. "Is that too much to fucking ask? Just this once! We get Minho and we get the serum, plus any other kids WICKED's got locked up in their shucking labs."

 Newt didn't answer and they both stared each other out, breathing heavily.

 "Well?" Thomas pressed gently, his fingers pushing angry indents in Newt's coat. "Is it?"

 "Yes." Newt whispered, lowering his eyes, and Thomas breathed in sharply. He leaned back. "I'm sorry, Tommy." Newt’s voice was low, resigned, even quieter than his breathing.

 His cheeks were wet.

 A fierce burning in his chest, like his lungs were filled with icy water. Newt was crying. It _hurt._ Thomas brushed his palm against Newt's jaw and made him look at him.

 "Don't," he murmured, echoing him. "Just - don't, Newt."

 He pulled Newt closer and kissed him. Newt didn't stiffen or push away but his lips were as unyielding as steel, and only when Thomas' thumb swept over his cheek did he lean inwards. A soft exhale left him and Thomas kissed him harder.

 "Tommy," Newt's voice was squashed and thick with regret, but it was a protest nonetheless. Thomas opened his mouth on his so they could breathe; Newt's lips parted reflexively also.

 "This isn't going to help," Newt breathed hard: Thomas could taste him, so close, on his tongue. "It's just going to make everything harder." His hands were gripping the front of Thomas' jacket, knuckles frost-white.

 "I don't care. I-I just. . ." He spread his hand wide through Newt's hair, its softness plush in the depth of his palm. Again, a contented sigh from Newt. "Can't we have this?" Thomas whispered, "Just forget everything, and. . ."

 Newt opened his eyes. "You want to forget?"

 Thomas looked back at him, their faces almost too close to focus. "No," he skimmed their lips together, almost a infant-like nuzzle. "I just want to live. For once."

 Newt's eyes grew dark with what Thomas thought was fury, but, by the way he kissed him back, turned out to be desire. Newt's lips pressed hard against Thomas' teeth and he licked his tongue to the soft roof of his mouth. Newt bit at him, and Thomas groaned, low. He slipped his hands under Newt's jacket, up onto his shoulders and slid it off down his arms. Newt nodded his head fervently, mouth too busy to acknowledge agreement, and stole forward to unzip Thomas'. Thomas shrugged it off and they shifted closer together, Newt's arms roaming tighter around his waist, Thomas shivering in pleasure at the new closeness. Newt felt so good in his arms. Thomas kissed the corner of his sore, cracked lips, his chin, along the sharp line of his jaw. He kissed Newt's throat, that pale column of flesh, elongating as Newt tipped his head back, and grazed teeth over the tender bob of his adam's apple. Newt inhaled sharply as Thomas drifted further south, mouthing wetly and eagerly at the hollows of his clavicles. He raised a still-trembling hand to the nape of Thomas' neck, fingernails scraping at tender skin.

 "Tommy."

 It was a plead, hoarse and urgent.

 Thomas raised his head and Newt drew him impatiently back to his lips. They kissed as if the world was ending. And a world was ending, and both of them knew it. But another was also beginning: a new world with the two of them, between the two of them. A world of _What If._ . .

It was being born in that moment, amid their feverish souls, and hungry mouths and skin-seeking hands. Amid the urge, the need, to feel something other than fear, anger, or hate. Amid their hearts that shared too much sorrow and pain. It was there as Newt and Thomas kissed and exchanged taste and cells and spit; alive with euphoria at just the feel of each other. It was there still as Newt warmed his hands on Thomas' skin beneath his shirt, and as Thomas slid a knee between Newt's legs, making his nails dig into his skin with a low moan. And it was there as they stumbled to the opposite corner of the dark room, Thomas walking backwards and blind, and half-fell on the rotten, rat-chewed excuse of a mattress.

* * *

 

_**Thanks for reading!** _


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